


Our Highest Ambition

by erstwriter



Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: Enemies to Lovers, M/M, it's maybe gay if you want to do it again, it's not gay to suck your bro's dick, or at least sascha thinks they're enemies, they're both petty drama queens
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-24
Updated: 2020-10-24
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:14:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27182992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/erstwriter/pseuds/erstwriter
Summary: They meet at a bar. Of course they meet at a bar, because Sascha has the worst luck in the world. Even when he is simply trying to drink himself to death, he’s tormented by the sight of his arch-rival, his great nemesis, his most hated enemy: Stefanos Tsitsipas. Who has very broad shoulders. But it’s not like Sascha notices, or anything.Or: Stefanos Tsitsipas and Sascha Zverev get fucked in Paris, both in the drunk way and the fun way. 16k of emoting about losing and straight up porn.
Relationships: Stefanos Tsitsipas/Alexander Zverev
Comments: 17
Kudos: 55





	Our Highest Ambition

**Author's Note:**

> Slight alternate universe: Coronavirus does not exist; Sascha did not play his final Roland Garros match with symptoms of Coronavirus, and was also not gallivanting about when he was meant to be in quarantine. Timelines are fudged: the U.S. Open still happened before Roland Garros, just for the sake of angst. This starts off a little depressing and devolves into filth; if you are even slightly connected to the players in question, please navigate far, far away. I have a sense of shame about this, but also for some reason a deep need to put it out into the world. Obviously: this is merely a fictional representation of real people I do not know. 
> 
> Warnings: early on, a depiction of self-harm through biting.

_For now our highest ambition  
was simply to bear the light of day  
we had once been planning to seize. _

_Paul Muldoon – Horse Latitudes: Beijing_

Sascha finishes the match lying in the clay. He’s wrong-footed running for a forehand on match-point, and he trips and falls; falls well, thank God, doesn’t twist anything on the way down. He lies there for a moment, the crowd so loud it’s like he’s out in a storm. As if the clay should be wet with rain. There are thousands of people screaming with joy because he’s lost. The kid’s French. He knew which way the crowd was gonna go, it’s hardly a shock. Crowds are temperamental and particular and nobody’s loved all the time, unless they’re Roger. It’s still no fun. He closes his eyes and places his forehead down, dropping his racket, clawing a hand into the clay, digging it under his nails. He gives himself one second, two, breathing it in, before he hauls himself back up. He looks across the net and the kid’s fallen to his knees. Maybe he’s crying. He’s made the French Open quarter-final as a qualifier. Sascha would cry, too. None of this feels real.

He gets to the net first, and he waits until the kid, still prostrate on the floor, notices that he’s there. It takes a moment but finally the kid looks up, remembers where he is, andscampers over. He’s so young, Jesus. He really was crying. He looks up at Sascha, wide-eyed and blinking, and tells him he’d always loved seeing him play on TV. Christ, he thinks, he’s only twenty three. He should call Roger and apologize for all the old man jokes, if this is how it feels. Sascha grimaces and hopes it looks like a smile. This is the fun bit, kid, he wants to say: enjoy it while they love you. This is the bit before you’ve disappointed them again and again, and they start saying you’ll never do everything they made up out of thin air for you, you’ll never be the golden haired champion they wanted. You’ll fade into insignificance, nothing more than a grinder, and people will say remember when we hyped _him_ up? God, how sad, that we all thought he could be something.

There are all the motions of losing: packing his bag while the kid does his victory lap, shaking the umpire’s hand, walking off court and waving because he has to, getting a cursory round of applause. As he goes off an interviewer appears to fawn over the kid. Right now Sascha would kill someone to be on court, answering stupid questions, getting laughs from the crowd. The kid’s a qualifier he should have beat in three sets. He should be in the quarter-finals right now. It was the kid’s first top ten win. It was basically an act of charity; he gift-wrapped it for him. He will think about this for the next week straight. 

In the shower, he tries to jerk off. He holds his dick in his hand and wonders if he can manage it. The water is hot and he runs a hand over his chest and he shivers and feels disconnected from his body. It feels like someone else’s. Someone else has spent years of their life honing this, making it do perfect motions at the perfect time, hours in gyms and on court, complete dedication to a single goal. And his body is so perfect. It does everything he asks of it and more. The problem is his stupid, pathetic mind that means he’s destined to failure and grinding mediocrity for the rest of his life, until his body finally gives up.

The fourth round isn’t so bad. He knows that’s what his parents will say, what Mischa will say, what he’ll say in press, that it’s better than spinning out in the first round. But not so bad is nowhere near good enough, and if he spends his whole career at not so bad, never gets to good enough, then –

He doesn’t jerk off. Instead, he cries, biting onto his upper arm, sobs that wrack his body. He knows Pierre Hugues-Herbert is in the next stall over and so he backs into the corner of the stall and tries to stay still and silent, crouching a little, but not so far it would like something was wrong. His arm hurts where he bites it and it feels good, and so he concentrates on that. It is sharp and dulls everything else and he tightens his teeth, past every instinct that tells him no, until he starts to feel the skin give way. He gives up before he draws blood. He leans against the wall of the shower and the pain in his upper arm is the centre of everything now, pulsing outwards. It’ll bruise, he knows, and he’ll have to find long sleeves for press. For now, though, he turns the water up too hot, and cries silently, without much effort, face and body wet and tired and aching.

By the time he’s back at his hotel, he’s over that initial, catatonic misery, but he doesn’t exactly feel great. He knows Roger can lose and be out at dinner, grinning at the table, by the evening, but he doesn’t want to see anyone.

He’d done press and it went fine. He’s alright at it, by now. He doesn’t like it but he’ll get through. He’d seen David and they’d agree to go over footage once Sascha was back home. He’d avoided everyone else: he’d hid round a corner to avoid Marcelo. He only narrowly missed running into Domi, who looks like he’s on a singled-minded run to the final. Sascha should congratulate him. He will, he will. Just not right now. He’d talk to Mischa, but he’s off playing a challenger in Portugal. His dad, who’s in the room next door, is out schmoozing with some guy who was offering a sponsorship deal for a sports drink that he really ought to take, but they’d kept talking about his appeal to the adolescent market and it creeped him out. Brenda, who’d been great fun and always up for a bit of consolation sex, had unceremoniously dumped him before clay season, saying he was emotionally absent and travelled too much, which was true but, Sascha felt, overly mean.

He orders room service. He paces up and down his room for a bit. He listens to some mediocre Russian rap and stares out at the skyline. The hotel doesn’t have a bad view, but it’s just as bland and corporate as any other hotel room he’s been in. What actually sucks about being an athlete, he thinks, is that there are very limited ways in which he can self-destruct. He can’t do any interesting drugs. He can’t go too wild, because he risks photos and scandal and fifteen meetings with his agent. He can’t even drink that much, because it’s not like he gets to drink that often, so a couple of drinks does him in.

It’s still warm, so he sits out on his balcony. It’s only recently he’s started to get rooms good enough for balconies, but it’s no longer a novelty. Roland Garros is strange, because it’s right in the centre of Paris, so his balcony hangs over a busy street. There are tourists and couples and drunk layabout teenagers, people coming home from work and people heading out for the evening. Paris is always dirtier than he expects. He sees a waitress standing in an alley, smoking. He watches her for a while. She has her head against the wall and looks up at the sky. Sascha sees cities from hotel rooms and tennis courts, and it’s been like that since he was a toddler. He can’t imagine staying somewhere and never leaving. The woman sighs, and reaches down and slips a foot out of her shoes, and starts massaging it, and he’s suddenly embarrassed. She doesn’t think anyone’s watching. He doesn’t have the right to see it. He wonders how she deals with her feet hurting.

He looks back into the room, where his room service tray is sitting on the bed. There are clothes all over the floor, shoes and rackets and plastic packaging pulled off new packets from Adidas. He’s been here long enough to create some serious mess. Like someone set a bomb off and left. There’s a crumpled shirt hanging over the back of a chair. He probably would have worn this shirt for the photos if he’d won. He doesn’t think about that, doesn’t check the scores, doesn’t see who’s gone through. Everyone has to go home sometime, he just thinks that it shouldn’t be him. He should be better, he can work harder and be _better._

He decides, then – and this will be the moment that later, he pinpoints as the instant the whole catastrophe began – that he’s going to go out and find a bar, and he’s going to get absolutely, catastrophically, end-of-the-world drunk.

Here’s the thing about Sascha Zverev: for his whole life, people have told him he can win grand slams. Mischa always said he was the better brother, that he could do so much more. His dad would make him train until he threw up, then haul him up from where he was shivering and retching on his knees and tell him to run suicides again. And Sascha always did it, has always said yes and trained more and worked until he could barely walk, because he believed them. That if he did enough, if he just worked hard enough, ran enough and hit enough balls and played enough matches, he could do it. It wasn’t arrogance, really: he had just expected that it would all slot into place. That the world would be the way everyone had told him it could be.

But then, he crashes out in early rounds, limps through five set matches he shouldn’t be playing, losing in a protracted, messy way, slow embarrassing failures. And then, by the grace of God, he gets through to the U.S. Open final, and plays like a fucking _dream,_ sharp and good and brilliant, and he’s two sets up, and he can taste it, and even when he lets it slip to five he claws it back, and serves for it, and then: he falls at the very last hurdle. Domi wins and Sascha watches him lift the trophy, and he loves Domi, but he hates him so much in that moment he could have killed him with his bare hands. And even when everyone tells him that he’ll have another chance, he knows that playing Domi, with Novak and Rafa and Roger all out of the draw – it was the best chance he’ll have in a long fucking while.

He dreams about that final, nearly every night. In his dreams he serves and double faults, again and again, giving away points, and they won’t let him stop serving, and he keeps double faulting until Domi wins. At the net Domi doesn’t hug him, just laughs at him, throws up his arms and celebrates and laughs, and the stadium is full of people laughing at him. And when he runs away to the locker rooms, his family aren’t there, his team aren’t there, and he knows, suddenly, they’re too embarrassed to be seen with him. He gets it, though. He understands that if he’s not winning, there’s no point to him. So, in his dreams, he sits in the empty locker room and cries.

The bar where he ends up is tasteful and non-descript, the same kind of bar that’s for rich people the world over. It has to be said: he _really_ likes being rich. Being famous can be a bit of a hassle, but being rich makes life a lot better. Sure, he can’t yet charter a private jet, but he can now spend an obscene amount of money on a drink without blinking. Which is how he ends up with the whisky in front of him: the bartender had kept talking about how special and expensive it was, and he knew it was a sales hook, but she was kinda cute, and he let himself be persuaded into it, feeling rich and grown-up for once.

Unfortunately, even if it was special and expensive, it’s disgusting. He keeps taking sips of it and coughing, and trying to pass the cough off as clearing his throat. It doesn’t just burn the back of his throat, it sends a spasm through his whole body, like he’s fifteen and sipping vodka for the first time. He’s sat at a table in a dark corner, and trying to be unobtrusive, but there’s a couple who keep glancing across at him as he coughs: he grimaces and nods at them. They turn back to their conversation. The woman’s young and pretty and the man’s old and rich. The man calls over a waiter and as he’s questioning him, the woman looks over at Sascha, flicks her eyes up and down. He stretches out his legs, leans back in his chair, gives her half a smile. This, he knows.

Her table-mate finishes his questions, waves the waiter away, and takes her hand, caressing it. She looks back at him with a glittering smile, as if he is the sole object of her devotion. There is a beautiful, large ring on her finger. Sascha’s in a cynical mood, tonight.

It might not be such a bad idea, though, to find someone. He knows he’s hot. He can definitely take someone home tonight. It’s a better idea than just getting wrecked on this terrible whisky. He starts to scan the room.

Urgh, Jesus. Standing at the bar, looking like a six-foot-four blond Labrador, is Stefanos Tsitsipas. Sascha has a sudden urge to hide, or run away from the bar. He’s pretty sure Tsitsipas is still in the tournament: he’s probably out for the night _experiencing the culture_ , or whatever the hell it was he vlogged about. He’s certainly not here for the alcohol: Sascha thinks back wistfully to peer-pressuring him into drinking vodka in Geneva, and how horrified Tsitsipas had been at the taste. Sascha had been downing champagne steadily since the afternoon, and he’d thought it was the funniest thing he’d ever seen: Tsitsipas taking careful, wincing sips of a vodka coke, looking determined like it was a challenge to be overcome.

Sascha wants to feel annoyed that Tsitsipas is intruding on his space, but Tsitsipas had probably done the same thing as him: searched in TripAdvisor for a good bar, then given up and gone to the one nearest the hotel. Tsitsipas is having some evidently _thrilling_ conversation with the bartender, who was looking up at him like he’d hung the moon, batting her eyelashes, _reaching out a hand_ to pat Tsitsipas’ shoulders. That was a definite fondle of a bicep. He wants to yell at her that Tsitsipas is an annoying ass and no matter how hot he is, it’s not worth it.

Maybe if he got another drink, he could get her number instead. He could get her to pat _his_ bicep. He wasn’t quite at Rafa levels, and he wasn’t going to be wearing sleeveless kits any time soon, but Tsitsipas didn’t have a monopoly on arm muscles. That seems like a satisfying plan, snatching Tsitsipas’ conquest out from under his nose.

The unfortunate thing is that since Sascha planning his triumph, he takes a sip of his drink in celebration, and then starts coughing, which makes Tsitsipas look round, and he obviously spots his greatest rival hunched over a table which a hacking cough, and then immediately began grinning and waving. Sascha raises his drink, trying desperately to stop coughing, and nods, because he’s _polite,_ no matter what Mischa said. Tsitsipas must have won. There’s no way he’d look so fucking _cheery_ if he hadn’t.

And, oh, God, Tsitsipas is bounding over to him, grinning, like he'd spotted someone who actually wanted to talk to him and wasn't currently drowning their deep and miserable sorrows. The cute bartender looked bereft. Sascha cursed Roger and everyone involved in the damn Laver Cup for forcing him to fake smiles at Tsitsipas for the weekend, who had somehow never got the hint that they were not friends and would never be friends, and it was no good coming up to him and grinning dopily and fucking jumping on top of him on match point, they were simply utterly incompatible.

“Sascha!”

Sascha nurses an irritation that Tsitsipas calls him Sascha, since Sascha was technically a nickname, for his friends and family, and Tsitsipas was firmly neither of those. But it would be an awful conversation, to say, _Hey, could you call me Alexander, cause I don’t actually like you,_ and Tsitsipas would probably mope around with puppy-dog eyes because Sascha had been so mean, and the half of the tour who think Tsitsipas’ weirdness is charming would hate him forever. So he’s stuck with Tsitsipas saying Sascha, until probably the end of time and the heat death of the universe, because the man does not take a hint.

“Hello, Stefanos.” Sascha says, because he was probably the politest person that had ever lived. Stefanos leaned down and stuck out a hand. Sascha shook it. He thought about the times they’d shaken hands at the net. He hates shaking hands and losing.

“I saw your match.” Tsitsipas says.

Ah, so he’s here to gloat.

“Enjoyed it?” Sascha says, and tries not to look too obviously like he wants to strangle Tsitsipas, then everyone in the bar, then himself.

“No. I mean, that kid was good, but it’s no fun watching you lose like that.” Sascha has to stop imagining violently murdering Tsitsipas, who seems, funnily enough, to mean what he’s saying. He imagines Tsitsipas watching the match on TV. Did he watch it in Roland Garros or was he back in the hotel room? He imagines Tsitsipas watching and wanting Sascha to win. It doesn’t feel right.

“I’d have thought you’d like seeing me so shit.” Sascha says. God, he doesn’t want to be mean, but he can’t help it. He can’t think of anything nice to say.

“Why would I like that?” Tsitsipas asks. Again, disconcertingly sincere. Sascha doesn’t really have an answer. He thinks it’s implied in the fact they’re rivals.

“Shouldn’t you be getting some sleep?” He asks instead.

“I lost.” Stefanos says, and shrugs. “Nothing to sleep for.”

They both lost. Something tense he hadn’t noticed was there loosens in Sascha’s chest. He doesn’t have to watch Tsitsipas outdo him, again.

“Oh, right. Sorry. Sorry, I was busy, after I – I didn’t keep checking the match scores.”

“That’s alright.” Tsitsipas says, as if it is. Tsitsipas watched his match and Sascha had no idea he’d lost.

“It still sucks.” He ends up saying. It explains why Tsitsipas is out in the city, at least. He’s getting fucked up over losing, too. 

“Yeah.” Tsitsipas says, and nods. “It does.” 

They both nod for a moment.

Now, clearly, is the natural end to the conversation. Sascha feels like he’s done his duty and not been a complete bastard to Tsitsipas. They’ll nod tight-lipped, and hopefully Tsitsipas would leave the bar, because otherwise _he’s_ gonna have to leave the bar, and it wasn’t like he particularly liked it, but he was used to it now.

Tragically, Sascha has a horrible feeling that Tsitsipas is eyeing the seat opposite. Sascha tried to signal with his body language that it is very much taken, with an imaginary person that he would rather be talking to, who was hopefully very female and beautiful and flirting with him.

“Is this seat taken?” Tsitsipas asks, and unfortunately, Sascha is really bad at lying.

“No.” He says, and for some ungodly, unknown, utterly mysterious reason, Tsitsipas takes that as an invitation to sit down.

Here's the thing about Stefanos Tsitsipas: Sascha hates him, and it’s not Stefanos’ fault. It’s more to do with timing. Stefanos had started winning just when Sascha had started losing. And Stefanos was blond and photogenic and started getting the attention Sascha was used to getting. When Stefanos had won the finals in 2019, after Sascha’s disaster of a season, and Sascha had seen the photos of him beaming with joy, kissing the trophy – Sascha’s trophy! – he’d sulked for a week. The head to head, creeping ever further in Stefanos’ favour, doesn’t help. Sascha _knows_ he’s better. He did more younger. Stefanos has what, a couple of 250s? An ATP finals? Sascha’s got three masters, he’s been in the top ten since 2017, he _belongs_ here, more than Stefanos does, and it drives him up the wall that everyone looks at Stefanos like he’s the next big thing. Sascha wants to yell that he’s still alive, that he’s only 23! He’s not dead! He’s beaten Federer too! And he's never faked a problem with his shoelaces in three matches in a row and hit his dad with a racket. 

He doesn’t acknowledge that Stefanos is ranked higher than him: as far as Sascha’s concerned, it’s all a fluke, and soon the natural order will reassert itself. Plus, Stefanos’ internet presence was so annoying that it validated all of Sascha’s hatred. Sascha might be doomed to failure, but at least he’s never posted Quotes To Live By and heavily edited photos of his MacBook.

"What?"

"I said, what are you drinking?" Sascha had missed whatever Tsitsipas was blathering on about. Probably a life lesson he’d learnt from losing.

“Oh. Whisky. It’s horrible.” Sascha flicks the glass in front of him. He resents it. He wishes he could down it. He wishes it had made him more drunk, so he could pretend like Tsitsipas was a drunken hallucination.

“I’ve never drunk whisky.” Tsitsipas says.

“Try some.”

Sascha pushes over the glass. Tsitsipas gives him a look, which like, what, it’s not a big deal, it’s not like he was enjoying the drink. Tsitsipas takes a sip. He immediately pulls a sour face, begins to cough, and finally chokes it down.

“That’s disgusting.” Tsitsipas says, like it’s personally offended him.

“I know, right? It was so expensive.” Sascha says. Tsitsipas pushes back the glass like it could hurt him. There’s another moment of silence while Tsitsipas shakes his head, recovering from the whisky. Sascha thinks that he should probably stop mentally calling him Tsitsipas. It’s rude. 

The bartender arrives with an elaborate, fruity cocktail. Stefanos grins up at her. Sascha wonders if he’s still trying to flirt. She doesn’t even glance at Sascha. He thinks her lascivious look is unwarranted, given that Stefanos is currently deeply engaged in disassembling the fruit sculpture on the top of his cocktail.

Finally, once the fruit arranged to his satisfaction, Stefanos takes a sip of the drink, sucking carefully through the straw, hollowing out his cheekbones. He looks up at Sascha and sees him scowling at the drink.

“You should get one.”

“It’s kind of girly.” Sascha says, injecting it with all the considerable disdain he can muster.

“It’s nice.” Stefanos says, and starts picking apart the complex arrangement of pineapple around the rim.

Sascha looks down at his horrible whisky.

“She’d fuck you.” He says. He’s being crude, but he’s in a mood, and he’s not totally sure he wants Stefanos to be here.

“Really?” Stefanos says, midway through a pineapple slice. He turns around and looks for the girl. He seems genuinely surprised.

“Yeah, dude. Can you really not tell?” Sascha thinks that if _he_ can tell she was throwing herself at Stefanos, than Stefanos himself should have noticed, probably about the time she fondling his upper arms.

“I’m bad at noticing.” Stefanos says, though he’s looking at back the girl, now. Maybe Stefanos is so hot he just gets it all the time and he tunes it out.

“You have a girlfriend?” Sascha asks. He hadn’t seen a girl hanging about with Stefanos, but he doesn’t devote his life to analysing Stefanos’ movements. There could be someone he hadn’t noticed.

Stefanos laughs, and pops a cherry into his mouth. “No, I’m not interested in that.”

Sascha stares blankly. Stefanos laughs again. 

“I’m not interested in women, Sascha.”

“You’re _gay_?” Sascha asks. His voice is weirdly high-pitched. Stefanos doesn’t seem bothered, and has instead started nibbling on the mango slivers.

“I like men. That means – “

“I know what being gay means, I’m not stupid.” And that came out harsher than he meant, and he winces, because he doesn’t want to be outright mean, because that would be rude, and he is _polite,_ no matter what Mischa says. But Stefanos doesn’t seem bothered, and just keeps going on, blissfully happy, apparently, to tell his _rival_ about his sexual preferences. Sascha’s not, like, actually homophobic or anything, he’d be totally fine if any of his friends came out. But tennis isn’t the kindest of sports for it. He’s played in countries where it’s illegal. What if Sascha went to a journalist, as an anonymous source, gave them the big scoop that Stefanos Tsitsipas likes cock? Not that he would, because that would be cruel, and even his most hated rival doesn’t deserve that, but he’s a bit bemused as to why Stefanos would give him that information.

Not that Stefanos has ever really behaved how a rival should. He’s always seemed a bit keen to be friends, and he’s never said anything quite as mean about him in the press, even when Sascha was busy being a dick and calling their matches pathetic to any journalist who’d listen.

Actually, on reflection, Sascha isn’t totally sure they’re rivals.

“Are we rivals?” He asks. There’s no point beating around the bush.

Stefanos pauses, and Sascha realizes he’d interrupted him giving a potted history of eye-opening sexual experiences with Greek Olympians. Whatever, this is important. “No?” Stefanos says slowly.

“Right.” Sascha says. He’s disappointed, for some reason.

“Did you think we were rivals?”

“I guess. Yeah. Whatever.”

“We’ve only played, what – six times?”

“And you’ve won five of them.” Sascha says. He picks at the tablecloth. It’s not like the score lines are burnt into his brain, or anything.

“We could be good rivals. If you really want to be rivals.” Sascha has the uncomfortable feeling that Stefanos is laughing at him. 

“Do you get good rivals?” Sascha asks.

“Like Roger and Rafa. Make each other better.”

“I only make you better.” Sascha says, petulant, then realises that sounded kind of weird. “I just mean – I want to win as well. You always win.”

Stefanos shrugs. “You can beat Daniil. I always lose to him.”

“I don’t care about Daniil,” Sascha says, and sure, he likes beating Daniil, he’ll never say no to a win, but it doesn’t feel as _satisfying_ as he imagines beating Stefanos would feel. Not that he’s imagined beating Stefanos. Only occasionally, when he’s really bored on a plane. When he imagined it, it felt really good. He’s annoyed that his only win came too early for it to be really satisfying. Sascha wants to change the subject.

“Who’d you lose to?” He asks, swirling his drink around.

“Novak.” Stefanos says. They share a moment of commiseration. Sometimes, Sascha wonders what they’re meant to _do,_ when the old guys just won’t lose. Maybe he should suggest that they just sabotage them. Stefanos would probably take him literally and be horrified.

“We should break their legs.” Sascha says, anyway. “Like Tonya Harding.”

To his surprise, Stefanos chuckles. “I think Novak might notice if we turned up with baseball bats.”

“We could sneak into his hotel room. Attack in the middle of the night.”

Stefanos is really laughing now, and Sascha thinks that maybe, since there’s literally no-one else he can talk to, he may as well put up with Stefanos’ company for a bit longer.

They keep drinking. Stefanos talks about growing up in Greece, about how hard it was without tennis infrastructure, about how he feels like he owes something to the country, that he needs to somehow prove the worth of Greece. Sascha finds himself talking about growing up idolizing Mischa, and wanting nothing more than to be like him, to be better than him. He talks about how he appreciates his family, for how much they believe in him, but that sometimes – it’s a bit much. Stefanos groans in recognition and Sascha remembers seeing his flock of siblings around. So then they talk about Stefanos’ siblings – whether Petros has what it takes, how Elizavet is coping with her family travelling so much, whether it’s hard for them that the spotlight is on Stefanos. Sascha’s spent his life as the little golden child of the family, and of the tour, and Stefanos asks if that was ever too much, and Sascha automatically says no, he’s been incredibly lucky. Stefanos raises his eyebrows and Sascha winces and admits that sometimes he wishes he hadn’t met half the players when he was five years old. 

And then they gossip about the tour, about whether WTA-ATP relationships can ever really work, about Kyrgios’ latest spat with Khachanov on Twitter. Sascha says he hates photoshoots, that they’re embarrassing, and Stefanos says he loves them, and Sascha says he’s not surprised and rolls his eyes, and Stefanos demands to know what he means, and Sascha says – well, look at your Instagram, and Stefanos says, you look at my Instagram? And Sascha mumbles something about how he can’t avoid it. But then Stefanos says, yours is really boring, so Sascha says, you look at mine? And Stefanos says, I was just scoping out the competition, and Sascha raises his eyebrows, and Stefanos starts – well, giggling is probably the best term for it.

Stefanos has been running through the menu of elaborate fruity cocktails. Sascha is particularly jealous of the latest one, which is coconut-cherry and arrived on fire. He’s on his fifth horrible whisky, and he’s started to like the way it hurts. He watches Stefanos pick up shredded coconut from the rim of his glass and lick it off his finger.

“Why aren’t you out?” Sascha asks, and immediately knows he’s put his foot in it, but suddenly he needs to know. Stefanos just looks at him levelly and licks the last of the coconut from his finger.

“Would you be?” He asks.

“No.” Sascha says. And he should really leave it alone, but his self-control is slipping with every drink and now he _wants to know._ “Will you ever be?”

“That depends.”

“On what?”

“If I need to be.”

“Why would you need to be?”

Stefanos shrugs. “If there’s someone who wants me to be.”

“Don’t you want – you know, for all the – gay kids, or whatever?” Sascha asks, and he doesn’t know why he cares, and it would be huge, anyway, to have a top tenner come out, and it’s more than he could ever do, he’d be too scared, he knows he would. Stefanos gives him a wry smile.

“I guess I’m a coward.”

“You’re not.” Sascha says, on impulse, then wonders what he’s basing that on. “I’d be too scared to tell anyone.”

“I guess you’re lucky you’re straight.” Stefanos says, and Sascha makes a noise in agreement.

“Yeah. Super lucky.”

“Do you have – “ Stefanos trails off. He’s a bit too awkward to ask straight out. Sascha thinks that at least he has better social graces than Stefanos.

“No. I did, but – she said I travelled too much. Which, you know, I thought I’d established. I’m a tennis player, you’d think - and she thought I practiced too much. And didn’t put enough like – emotional time into her, or whatever.” Also, he was probably a shit boyfriend, but he’s not gonna start spilling his heart out to Stefanos Tsitsipas.

“Sorry, man.” Stefanos says.

“It’s fine.” It is fine. He moped for a week but practiced the whole time. He can forget most things when he’s practicing. It’s like a sinking into a pool. All the other noises disappear and his ears bubble with the sound of racket strokes. 

“It still sucks. 

“Yeah. It does.” Sascha says, and reaches for his drink.

And then, one way or another, the hours and the drinks have gone by, and the bar’s closing. The cute waitress comes round and tells them it’s last orders. She makes eyes at Stefanos, again, who doesn’t notice, again. Sascha slumps onto the table.

“I don’t want to go back. I don’t want to go out. I don’t want to be in _public._ Fuck. Maybe I’ll just get a new hotel room. I could now, right? I’ve got a card. I’m rich. I’ll get a new hotel.” It sounds horrible. Just a new impersonal ceiling to stare up at and wonder why he’s a failure. It sounds so bratty, complaining about always being put up in hotels, but he _hates_ them, hates how everything shifts constantly but stays weirdly the same, how he spends most of the year living out of suitcases, how nothing feels like it’s ever really his _._

“You could come to mine.” Stefanos says.

“What?”

“If you don’t want to go back. You could sleep on the sofa.” Stefanos looks Sascha up and down. “If you’ll fit.”

Sascha feels very sober, suddenly. They’ve been getting along, sure, but he’s not going to Stefanos’ _hotel room._ It feels a bit cheap, for some reason. Not that there’s any reason for it to feel cheap. It’s not like Stefanos is offering for any reason but a misguided attempt at friendship. He makes a non-committal noise.

“Where are you staying?” Sascha doesn’t know why he’s asking, it’s a ludicrous idea, he’ll just go back and sulk around his dad. He’s not sleeping on Stefanos Tsitsipas’ sofa. Also, there’s the risk that Tsitsipas has a better room than him, which would really put him in a bad mood.

“The George.”

Sascha hums. It’s a nice hotel, he was there last year. “I’m in the Vendome. Why’d they put us in different ones?”

“Maybe they thought we’d fight.” Stefanos says, clearly about to laugh, which Sascha thinks is _not_ funny, he’s been holding up his side of the rivalry very seriously, it’s not his fault if Stefanos turned out to be so fucking _zen_ about it.

“We’re not teenage girls.” Sascha says, and before Stefanos can say anything about how Sascha sometimes does behave like a teenage girl, he slumps down again and says, sullen, “I don’t want to see my dad. I don’t want to see David. I want to – I don’t know. What do you want?”

“To win.” Stefanos says, level. Sascha always knew Stefanos was better than he was. Psychologically, he means. Sascha’s got more titles. And he’s taller. Christ, he’s drunk too much.

“We’ve both fucked that.” Sascha says, speaking into the table.

“Not forever.”

“I know _that._ ”

There’s a moment of silence.

“What would you do if you – didn’t?” Sascha asks.

“Didn’t win?”

“Yeah. What if you never won a slam? After everything.”

Stefanos looks contemplative. “I think – if I knew I tried my best, it’d be alright. There’s other things in life.”

“Everyone keeps calling me disappointing,” Sascha says, and it’s so embarrassing, to admit that he reads it all, every last stupid article that says he’s passive and useless and will never live up to that potential at eighteen. And fuck, he works _so hard,_ and he’s trying so hard, and he doesn’t know what else they want him to do, apart from just be better, and fuck, if he could just wake up one morning and _be better_ then he’d have ten slams by now.

“You’re not disappointing.” Stefanos says, and he sounds sincere and it makes Sascha want to be sick. Sascha puts his head back down on the table.

“You’re doing everything I did.” Sascha says, and now he really sounds old and bitter. Just to make it worse, he adds, “They love you now.”

Stefanos hums, and says, “I always wanted to do what you did. I was so – you were doing so well, and I was scraping around in Challengers, and you were in the top ten.”

Sascha feels like he’s going to cry, which is so embarrassing. He keeps his head firmly on the table. Stefanos can apparently hear him even if he’s talking straight into the wood. 

“But what if – “ Sascha says, and Stefanos is very silent, and Sascha is staring at the wood of the table, which is dark and tasteful. “What if I never do better than that?”

“You might not.”

“Fuck you,” Sascha says, but there’s no venom to it.

“But you might.” Stefanos says. “I think we will.” Sascha doesn’t miss the ‘we'. Maybe he'll win everything and Stefanos will do nothing. Maybe Stefanos will leave him in the dust. 

“I don’t want to be a disappointment.” He says. He drags his head upwards.

“You’re not. You wouldn’t be.” Stefanos says. It’s funny. It’s the only thing Sascha’s ever wanted to hear and he hates hearing it. He’s drunk now and he hears it like it’s far down a tunnel. He’s standing at one end and Stefanos is talking and he’s leaning closer and closer until he falls on his face and Stefanos walks away. Stefanos is looking at him and Sascha can’t bear it and he drinks instead, enough in one gulp he feels it going through straight through him. The world has blurred edges.

“Come back to mine. We can have a drink,” Stefanos says, and Sascha feels weak and useless and stupid, and he just nods, and drags himself up, and his whole body feels heavy and limp.

He stumbles a bit, as they walk out, and Stefanos steadies him with a hand, and Sascha leans into it, Stefanos’ palm warm and solid against his back. When they get outside Stefanos drops his hand, getting out his phone to order a taxi, and Sascha tells himself that he only misses the hand because he’s lonely and miserable and really any human contact would do it for him right now. Stefanos is looking down at his phone, concentrating, and Sascha is staring at him, shivering a bit – Paris is always colder than he thinks, he should have brought a jacket – and Stefanos looks warm, he thinks, so he moves closer, and leans against him, and Stefanos makes a startled noise.

“I’m cold.” Sascha says. Stefanos’ body has gone stiff as a plank, so he says, “Relax man, I’m not coming onto you.”

Stefanos doesn’t say anything, so Sascha stays draped over his shoulder. Eventually, he begins to relax. By the time the taxi arrives, Sascha is settled in.

“Do you love it?” Sascha asks. He’s folded into the corner of the taxi. Stefanos is tapping his foot and Sascha can’t help but focus on the sound, and the movement of Stefanos’ thigh up and down, flexing in his chinos.

“Yeah.”

“I wish I didn’t. I wish I could quit. I wish I hated it.” The car sidles in traffic. Everything is loud and bright.

“I know what you mean.”  
“I love it more than anything. Anything in the whole fucking world.”

“I think I love some things more.”

Sascha thinks this is where he and Stefanos are different. Stefanos has his stupid vlogs and his stupid photography. Sascha doesn’t like anything but tennis. He doesn’t care about anything but tennis. He hasn’t cared about anything else since he was three years old and his dad put a racket in his hand. He hasn’t cared about anything else since he grew up idolizing Mischa. He’s been so good at tennis he’s never had a reason to care about anything else. And if he was only a bit better at tennis he’d never have to care about anything else.

“I don’t know who I’d be. If I didn’t play tennis.” He says, looking out at the street whipping past. The streetlights are soft. The lit windows of shops go past in blurs. There are groups of drunk people on the street, laughing together. He wonders what they do. He wonder if they’re happy. He looks over at Stefanos, who’s looking out of the window at his side. “What if you got injured? What would you do?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think about it.”

“I do. I imagine that I’m injured and I could never play again. Every time I have a big match I imagine it’s the last one I’ll ever play.”

Stefanos looks across at him. “Doesn’t that stress you out?”

“Yeah.” Sascha says, and laughs. He’s so fucking drunk. He’s such a mess, and he’s pouring his heart out to Stefanos Tsitsipas, of all people, who’s probably going to give him some fake-deep quote off Twitter. He should get out of the taxi now. They’re not so far from his hotel, he could walk home now. Let Stefanos go back, and see him at the next tournament they play together. They could probably hold a civil conversation in the locker room, now.

“I don’t want to give you too many tips, but, like, maybe don’t do that?” Stefanos says, and the joking tone of it startles Sascha, and he laughs more, and tips his head back onto the head-rest, and he thinks Stefanos is watching him, and he’s not sure why, but he closes his eyes and stays there, and the world goes by in bars of light and dark over his eyelids and the rumble of the taxi through his body, and he parts his lips, and he swallows.

When they pull up outside the hotel, there’s a brief argument as they can’t decide who’ll pay for the taxi. Stefanos thinks he should, because it’s his room they’re going to, and Sascha thinks he should, because he’s the guest.

"Which of us is richer?” Sascha asks.

“I don’t know.”

"How much do you get from Adidas?” Stefanos looks reticent. “Come _on,_ how much do you get?”

Stefanos mumbles a number. Sascha gives a gleeful laugh.

“I’m paying!” He says, and it’s honestly cheered him right up. Team8 is a wonderful management company and he’s never complaining about a single thing ever again. He basically pushes Stefanos out of the way to throw his card at the driver. Stefanos is laughing and he doesn’t care because he’s full of joy. He jumps out of the car and runs round the other side and opens the door for Stefanos, and pulls him out, and Stefanos stumbles and falls into him – fuck, he’d forgotten Stefanos was a lightweight too. He holds up Stefanos, who’s laughing into him. And then suddenly Stefanos straightens and pulls away and adjusts his shirt and Sascha wants to grab him back, but Stefanos is moving away, looking around.

“We should – “ He gestures at the hotel lobby.

“Okay.” Sascha says. “Whatever you say.”

Stefanos motions for Sascha to walk before him. He doesn’t touch Sascha again, and Sascha notices, then wonders why he notices, then wonders why he wonders why he notices.

Stefanos’ hotel room looks just like any hotel room. Sascha doesn’t know what else he was expecting. Maybe something weirder. It’s neutral and bland as every hotel room he’s ever stayed in, but a lot tidier. There’s a set of sleek electronic items on a desk in a corner. He wanders over to the wardrobe, where there are a series of shirts hanging up. He never hangs his clothes, he doesn’t see the point, and so they’re always crumpled, unless his mum seizes them and irons them.

“The sofa pulls out.” Stefanos says. He’s standing in the middle of the room. They’re both at a bit of a loose end.

“Thanks.” Sascha says. They can sort it in a bit. He can’t be bothered, right now.

“Do you, uh – I’ve got some vodka?” Stefanos says, and starts rooting through a suitcase.

“Go on, then.” Sascha says, and takes a seat on the bed. He only realises that’s odd when Stefanos turns around, and looks startled to see him there, but it would be weirder now to move, so he braves it out. Stefanos hands Sascha a glass of straight vodka, then pulls around an armchair and sits down in it. Sascha takes a sip.

“This is decent.” He says. Stefanos has gotten ice from the mini-fridge, and it’s cool and slips right down his throat. Much better than that terrible whisky.

“I am half-Russian,” Stefanos says.

“Aren’t we all,” Sascha says, and it’s true, everyone’s Russian nowadays. “I didn’t think you drank.”

“I thought I should start learning.”

“This is good.” Sascha says. “Good choice for a beginner.”

“Because you’re so experienced?” Stefanos says. They’re still joking, but it’s gone a bit low and quiet. If Sascha didn’t know any better he’d say they were flirting.

“I’m an expert drinker,” Sascha says, and it would be more convincing if he didn’t slur a bit at the end.

“Sure.” Stefanos says, and Sascha wants to prove that he _is_ a great drinker by downing half the bottle, but the little sense he has left reminds him he has a plane to catch in the morning.

Instead, he has another sip. God, it’s good. He wonders if Stefanos bought it himself, or if someone gave it to him. If it was one of his – boyfriends? They never established whether Stefanos was dating someone. His whole body feels calm and relaxed and soft. The room is very quiet. There is a soft roar of traffic outside, like the lull of the sea shore. He hears Stefanos shift in his chair. Stefanos clears his throat. Sascha opens his eyes, slowly, reluctantly, and looks over at Stefanos. He’s got his legs crossed, looking at the other side of the room, but one hand is tight on the side of the chair. He doesn’t look at Sascha. Sascha waits for him to speak.

“Do you want to fuck me?” Stefanos says. And he says it so casually, like he’s remarking on the weather. He’s looking into the corner of the room and cover of the armchair with one hand, and Sascha’s not sure he’s heard at first, but then the sentence settles in his head. Just like the weather. Rain’s due, play might be delayed, Stefanos Tsitsipas just offered himself up on a platter. Sascha’s so startled he says the first thing that comes into his mind.

“I’m not gay.”

Stefanos shrugs. “You could still fuck me.” He leans back a bit in his chair, rolls his shoulders back. Sascha wonders what his stretching routine’s like. Stefanos is a bit bendier than him, he thinks. They could compare notes.

“You’re a guy.” Sascha says. These are very banal observations, he knows, but he thinks it’s still important. He doesn’t _remember_ having said he was interested in experimenting, but maybe he’s drunk more than he thought.

“You’re very smart, Sascha.” Stefanos says, lightly amused.

The cogs in Sascha’s head are turning very slowly. “Do you want to fuck me?”

“What do you think?”

“I mean, you just – “

“So?” Stefanos raises an eyebrow and looks at him patiently.

“Wow.” Sascha has to sit with it for a moment. It’s a lot to contemplate.

“But you’re straight, so – “ Stefanos shrugs, and stands up and stretches his arms out behind him. “I should get to sleep. You know how to do the sofa?” 

“Hang on.” Sascha says, very quickly and not really knowing why he’s saying it. Stefanos, stretching his elbows out one at a time, raises his eyebrows.

“Why?”

Sascha doesn’t have an answer; he only knows that letting Stefanos go right now would be a very bad idea.

“Why do you want to fuck me? I’m not – I don’t think I’ve ever been very nice to you.” Christ, this is embarrassing, it’s the alcohol talking, he’ll regret this tomorrow, talking like he’s a teenage girl. Stefanos looks at him, and Sascha feels like the roles have reversed somehow: that Stefanos is older and wiser and more successful. Not that he is actually much older or wiser or more successful than Stefanos, he just wants to think he is. Stefanos keeps looking at him, and Sascha _cannot_ read his expression, but he isn’t going to lose this staring contest, even though his eyes are already watering.

Stefanos blinks away first. Sascha thanks God for the fact he wears contacts. “Do you remember how your parents used to give me your old clothes?”

“Yeah.” He’d forgotten, actually. He’d gone through his growth spurt first. “They played together, right? Your mum and my dad. In like, Soviet times.”

“Yeah. Your parents were always nice to me.”

“So like – you want to repay the favour? By sleeping with me?”

Stefanos laughs. “No, no. Just, we’ve known each other for a long time, Sascha.” Sascha wants to say something mean and silly and make him _go away,_ but also he needs Stefanos not to leave, and he’s definitely not thinking about the offer. He’s seen Stefanos shirtless on court before, not that he was _looking,_ it’s just sometimes you look across and your opponent is changing their shirt and you happen to _notice._

“I’m straight.” Sascha says again.

“Yep. You said.” Stefanos looks contemplative, then shrugs. “I could just suck you off.”

There is a quiet moment as Sascha processes the image of Stefanos sucking dick. Not like, his dick in particular, just a general anonymous dick.

“Do you want to?” He asks.

“Yeah, I like it.” Stefanos says, still as casual as ever. He then says, more carefully, “I’ve done it for straight guys before.”

“That doesn’t very straight.” Sascha says. He is not necessarily the most up to date with gender and sexuality and all that, but he is pretty sure that a guy giving another guy a blowjob comes under the realm of gay shit.

Stefanos shrugs again. He has _really_ broad shoulders. Sascha’s not sure he’s noticed that before. “It’s not that different from a girl doing it.”

Sascha doesn’t know why he’s even still _talking_ to Stefanos about this. He should be asleep, or in bed with a nice girl, or getting drunk out of his mind in some horrible posh French bar and having all his winnings from the year fleeced out of him by bartenders pushing expensive whisky.

“We could just try. I’ll stop if you don’t like it.” Stefanos says, and Sascha’s mouth is dry, and he realizes he’s turned on, he’s been thinking about blowjobs for the past five minutes and he’s twenty three so it’s only a natural reaction, but Stefanos is _there_ and he’s _offering._ Sascha lies back on the bed, which, fuck, he honestly hasn’t thought about, but he did come back to Stefanos’ hotel room, and he’s been sat on his bed taking drinks from him, and if Stefanos were a girl he’d have known exactly where this was heading from the moment they left the bar. Honestly, if he were in Stefanos’ position, he’d have thought he was a tease. Maybe he should take the offer, just to be polite. And surely Stefanos is right, it can’t be that different, he loves blowjobs when girls give them to him, and it can’t be _that_ different. Stefanos even has long hair, it would look basically the same.

“Sascha?” Stefanos asks, and Sascha has his eyes closed but he can tell Stefanos is much closer.

“Yeah.” Sascha says, and honestly isn’t sure what he’s saying yes to.

“Yeah?” Stefanos kneels on the bed next to him and puts a hand on Sascha’s chest. Sascha hadn’t noticed his t-shirt riding up but apparently it had, because Stefanos’ right hand is on his bare skin. It’s callused, like his, where they spend hours every day gripping the racket, which he hadn’t thought about before. Fuck, he’s so turned on. He’s hard in his jeans and he knows Stefanos knows, and there’s probably no point acting like he wasn’t saying yes to it, now. He’s lying on Stefanos’ bed and Stefanos’ hand is – fuck, it’s _fondling_ the edge of his hip, where his jeans have slipped down a little, and he’s only human.

“I mean – yeah.”

“Can I take your shirt off?” Stefanos asks, and Sascha takes a deep breath, because sure, he’s a bit drunk, but this is actually fucking _real._ He shimmies back and lets Stefanos pull off his t-shirt. He’s lying down but propping himself up on his elbows, and Stefanos is kneeling on the bed next to him, and runs down Sascha’s chest with his hand. Yeah, fuck, he’s proud of that. He feels a bit like he’s showing himself off, which is weird, but also kind of hot, and Stefanos is clearly keen on it, so he rolls with it.

“Like what you see?” He asks, just about managing to sound cocky when he’s actually shitting it. Stefanos doesn’t answer, but instead leans down and licks at the v of his hip, and Sascha, who isn’t expecting it, gasps – not in a girly way, a very manly gasp - and Stefanos clearly likes that, and licks again, closer to his groin. Sascha grips the sheet of the bed with one hand; he has a strange desire to put his hands in Stefanos’ hair, but that seems like it would be a bit forward. 

Stefanos mumbles something into Sascha's chest.

"What?" Sascha knows it comes out a little sharp and irritated, but Stefanos' face is perilously near his dick, and it’s super weird feeling his beard tickling his hip, but this is a night of discoveries and Sascha is pretty sure he’s into it. Stefanos lifts his face up and looks Sascha in the eyes and enunciates this time.

“I’ve wanted to do this for ages.” Sascha, who is honestly pretty proud of himself for not panicking so far, does start to panic a tiny bit at this. Stefanos is looking up at him and _blinking_ and he has really long eyelashes, which is a really gay thing to notice about a guy, and he would panic about thinking that, except he has to prioritize panicking about Stefanos literally being about to _suck his dick,_ and the fact this has been something Stefanos has wanted to do and so thought about before, presumably multiple times. Sascha realises he’s been silent a little too long when Stefanos clears his throat.

“Well then - go ahead.” Sascha says. Christ, he’s such a dick, why did he say that? He honestly wouldn’t be surprised if Stefanos decided this wasn’t worth it.

Thankfully, Stefanos just laughs at him, which isn’t great for his pride, but his brain has switched from being scared and unsure to being totally onboard, and if Stefanos doesn’t touch his dick soon he’s going to do something undignified like beg for it. And then Stefanos, who maybe is actually trying to ruin his life and break his spirit and make him lose all will to compete ever again, pauses, his face literally hovering above Sascha’s dick.

“You’re sure you want this?” It would actually be a great tactic, Sascha thinks, driving the top ten insane with sexual frustration. Stefanos would win every slam. Somehow, he manages to talk, though he doesn’t know if it’s intelligible, his English definitely slurred. Fuck, why doesn’t Stefanos speak German? Doesn’t he speak Russian? Anything but pissing English.

"Yeah. Yeah, I’m sure.” He thinks the enthusiasm comes across, at least.

“Sit up.”

“What?”

“I’ll get cramp in my back like this. Sit at the end of the bed.” Sascha shuffles forward and Stefanos goes fluidly to his knees and pushes Sascha’s knees apart, and Sascha feels genuinely light-headed as Stefanos leans forward and nuzzles – nuzzles? – his upper thigh through his jeans. He has no idea why his jeans are still on. He tries to buck up and start wiggling them down, and Stefanos takes a moment but then gets the idea, and together they get them off. Sascha throws them onto the floor, and there’s a clatter as change and maybe his keys and maybe everything he needs in the world fall out of the pockets, but Sascha can’t bring himself to care. Stefanos repositions himself between Sascha’s thighs, and Sascha almost groans at it, this is so fucked and so hot and there’s some tiny horrible bit of him that thinks this feels right, that he’s spent so long desperately wanting Stefanos to lose to him and finally he’s on his fucking _knees._

“Take your shirt off,” he says, and Stefanos looks up at him like he’s asking why, and Sascha can’t be bothered to explain that it’s weird he’s in his underwear and Stefanos is fully-clothed, and just gestures weakly. Stefanos smiles and begins to unbutton his shirt, slowly, like he’s doing a fucking strip-tease, and Sascha wants to just pull it off but that would probably rip all the buttons off and that would be rude, he’s not a caveman, so instead he watches Stefanos slip off his shirt and fold it neatly behind him.

“You ready?” Stefanos asks, and Sascha thinks Jesus, how many times does he have to say yes, can this happen already, he wasn’t aware getting a blowjob had to be such an ordeal, but then Stefanos puts his hand on his dick, and Sascha’s brain short-circuits. Stefanos strokes a few times, very gentle, just fluttering up and down, and then he leans forward and mouths at Sascha through his boxers, and Sascha swears, without really meaning to, something muttered and filthy in German. Stefanos makes a sound in his throat, and Sascha _feels_ the exhale of breath against his dick, even through the fabric.

“You sound so hot when you speak German,” Stefanos murmurs, and before Sascha has time to be embarrassed, Stefanos hooks his fingers on Sascha’s boxers and Sascha does some undignified squirming to get them down and off, and Stefanos folds them on the floor.

Fuck, his dick is out in front of Stefanos Tsitsipas, and yeah, he probably should have had this freak out earlier, like ten minutes ago, but it’s suddenly weird, and awkward, and vulnerable. Stefanos could just bite his dick if he wanted to, and that would really do a number on him, and maybe this was all just an extended plot to disable him through his dick and they are really rivals.

He stops this train of thought quickly when Stefanos licks a line up his dick and he makes this sort of horrible guttural choked sound, and then Stefanos has his dick in his mouth and his hands on the base and Sascha couldn’t form a sentence if you gave him all the money in the world.

And after that it’s a bit of a blur, just hot and wet and so fucking dirty – Stefanos pulls off sometimes and says filthy things about how much he likes it, and at one point Stefanos tries to to deeper, and Sascha, without thinking, tangles his hands into Stefanos’ hair, and _fuck_ he can tell Stefanos likes it, moaning round his dick, and kind of chokes but pulls off and tries again, Sascha’s hands knotted in Stefanos’ hair. Sascha doesn’t say much but just moans, in some weird mix of languages, and it would be kind of embarrassing but every time he moans Stefanos seems to get even more enthusiastic, and so it’s like the world’s best feedback loop.

Sascha’s close, he knows he’s close, and it hasn’t been that long but since this is his first gay experience he thinks he gets some leeway, and as he’s concentrating on how close he is a thought pops up, and it won’t go away, and suddenly as much as he wants to come now, he knows there’s more he really, _really_ wants to do. Even Stefanos’ tongue doing _that_ can’t distract him.

“I wanna fuck you.” His hands are in Stefanos’ hair and Stefanos’ mouth is around his dick, and Stefanos tries to pull back but Sascha accidentally keeps him there, not thinking, and Stefanos kind of chokes, a little bit, which is really hot, he won’t lie, but he untangles his hands from Stefanos’ hair. Stefanos rocks back onto his heels, and wipes off a glob of spit that was hanging down from the corner of his mouth, and he’s looking up at Sascha and he looks so fucking _thrilled_ that Sascha almost wants to take it back.

“Really?” Stefanos says it with genuine, excited delight, and his voice is _fucked,_ low and raspy, and Sascha gets even harder, which he honestly didn’t think was physiologically possible, and he strokes his dick, and it’s wet with Stefanos’ spit and his pre-cum and it takes every scrap of willpower he has not to come right then, looking at Stefanos’ mouth.

“Yeah. Really.” Sascha says, because he thinks, in for a penny, in for a pound. He liked the gay blowjob, he’s pretty sure he’ll like full on gay sex.

“Okay, great. Great!” Stefanos leaps up, with too much energy for someone who’s been sucking dick on his knees for fifteen minutes, and bounds across the room, rifling through a drawer, and finding a pack of condoms.

“Do you just keep those – in case – some guy’s around?” Sascha asks, and Stefanos gives him a weird look, pausing halfway through opening the pack.

“They’re only condoms.” And maybe Sascha’s brain is more scrambled than he thought, because the concept of heterosexual sex had genuinely flown his mind.

“Oh yeah.” Sascha finally drags something out of his brain, and starts thinking about the logistics of gay sex, which, it turns out, was useful information to have kept at the back of his mind all these years. “Do I need to – like do you need to – “

Stefanos looks at him. Sascha hates this, and he squirms, trying to find the words, before just spitting it out. “Are you clean?”

“I was tested last week.”

“No, I mean like – you don’t need to have a shower?” He knows what he’s talking about, he _has_ done anal before, even if it was just the once and the whole process kind of scared him. Stefanos laughs.

“No, I’m good.” Sascha thinks for a moment. It’s taking a lot of effort, honestly, all the blood in his body is currently in his dick, which he’s stroking kind of absent-mindedly, and there’s not much left for his brain.

“So before you went out – “

“Yeah.” Stefanos comes back to the bed, fiddling with the top of a tube of lube.

“You were looking for – “

“Yep.” Stefanos says, and then makes a little sound of frustration as the cap refuses to come off.

“Let me.” Sascha takes it with hands that definitely _aren’t_ shaking. “Do you usually, after?”

Stefanos leans back, looking far too relaxed for someone about to be fucked, Sascha thinks. “Not often,” he says. “Not random people.”

Sascha pops off the cap, finally. “I guess you found someone random,” he mumbles, and hands the lube back to Stefanos, because he’s a bit scared, faced with the prospect of actually using it. Stefanos frowns, just a little, which tugs at something in Sascha’s stomach that he doesn’t want to investigate.

“You’re not someone random.” Technically, this is true, but Sascha doesn’t want to think about it too much, because then he’ll start realizing what a terrible idea this is, but his dick won’t let him stop, and he’ll have to spend the whole ignoring his brain yelling at him that he is about to fuck _Stefanos Tsitsipas_ and that it can only end in disaster.

“So do you wanna – like get prepped?” Sascha asks, trying to be nonchalant and failing, because he’s freaking out, it’s started, his brain got temporarily sucked out of his dick but it’s coming back online now.

“I’ll start, then you can try?”

“Yeah, sure,” Sascha says, though he feels a bit like Stefanos is a primary school teacher, which is maybe not the mental image he wants to conjure up right now. Anything he was thinking about school flies straight out of his mind when Stefanos stands up, getting off the bed, and slips down his chinos. Sascha’s played Stefanos, he’s seen Stefanos in the locker rooms, they’ve both worn the same tiny Adidas shorts, but Sascha thinks he’s never paid the genuine, devoted attention to Stefanos’ thighs that they deserve. Sascha’s liked women, okay, and the women he fucks are usually highly groomed and have no hair from the neck down, and he has enjoyed that, really genuinely enjoyed that, but there’s a thin trail of hair that works its way up Stefanos’ chest, and hair that glints a little in the soft light on Stefanos’ upper thighs, and Sascha’s mouth goes dry, looking at Stefanos hard in his boxers, somehow unselfconscious, folding his chinos and hanging them over the back of his chair. And then Stefanos takes off his boxers, and folds them too, and Sascha is staring, genuinely staring, because he’s never really looked at another man’s dick before, has never really been allowed to, has obviously been _around_ countless dicks before, but he’d get called gay if he stared. But now he’s clearly past the gay point of no return, and Stefanos is laughing at him _again._

“You alright?” Stefanos asks, and something about the tone pisses him off, a bit, like Stefanos is being too _kind_ about this, and Sascha looks up at the ceiling and shifts as far away on the bed from Stefanos as he can get, which, given they’re both significantly over six foot, is not very far, even in the hotel room’s king size bed. He thinks of the Rihanna song.

“Hey, I’m not laughing. It’s a lot, right?” Sascha doesn’t say anything, and Stefanos, still standing, waits for him for a moment, then flops down on the bed. “It’s okay. I freaked out the first time I saw a dick that wasn’t mine. I ran away.”

Sascha is still staring at the ceiling, very aware that Stefanos is fully naked, lying next to him. This is so dumb, he can’t have a freak-out now, but he kind of is, it’s not just him any more, there’s a full actual naked man next to him, who _liked_ what was happening as well, and it’s something about how Stefanos got hard just sucking him off that’s messing with his brain.

“Literally?” He asks. His voice is low right now it barely creaks out.

“Yeah. Then I ran into my dad, which was weird.”

“Jesus.” Sascha doesn’t want to know what his dad would think of him now. He’d probably say it’s going to screw him up psychologically for the next time they play. He’s probably not wrong. Not that he matters, he’s 5-1 down, anyway, he’ll never win, and he’s going to lose every slam until the end of time to Stefanos and then probably become a hermit and never have sex again.

“Are you freaking out?”

Sascha thinks about it for a moment. He is freaking out, but maybe not about the gay bit. He probably should be panicking more. Except for some weird competitive exhibitionist shit when he was a teenager at training camps and they were all obsessed with each other’s dicks, he’s never had any gay experiences. He doesn’t want to brag but he’s just always had girlfriends. He’s spent his whole life in locker rooms with other enormously fit men, and he supposes that he’s always been able to tell when other men were attractive, like just noted it, but not in a gay way. He was a professional athlete, he had a standard healthy aesthetic appreciation of a fit male body.

“You sucked me off, it feels dumb to panic now.” And he keeps saying that but he _is_ panicking, and clearly Stefanos can tell, and Stefanos is being way too kind and considerate and he almost wants Stefanos to get pissed at him for this, but also that would be really shit.

“I’ve sucked off straight guys before. It doesn’t have to be – like that.” Stefanos says, but there’s maybe a bit of a melancholy note there, though Sascha might be projecting.

“Did they fuck you?” Sascha asks. He’s imagining it, now, Stefanos in the hotel rooms of random straight men – straight men Sascha knows? – and they come in his mouth and leave and don’t do anything else – don’t want to do anything else. It seems pretty sad. He doesn’t want – Christ, he doesn’t want to _use_ Stefanos, he’d feel bad, Stefanos is being so nice about all of this while he’s just here freaking out. 

“Not usually. We don’t have to.” Stefanos says. Sascha rolls onto his stomach and groans. He’s still so hard it might be a criminal offence. He mumbles into the pillow.

“What?”

Sascha turns his head and realises he’s very close to Stefanos’ face. This is maybe the worst thing he’s ever had to admit out loud. “I want to,” he says, and embarrassed, for some reason, tries to roll over again, but Stefanos catches him, disconcertingly close to his face again.

“I don’t want to pressure you.” Jesus, Sascha wonders if Stefanos has a mode that’s not appallingly sincere. Sascha forces himself not to move but he looks at a point on the wall over Stefanos’ shoulder, and thinks about how shit hotel room décor is.

“I want to. You’re not. I really – I really want to.” His voice nearly _broke_ , which is ridiculous, he’s twenty three. It is actually beyond him why he’s here, right now, doing this. He could have fucked that cute bartender. It would have been a lovely evening and he wouldn’t have had to have a single thought. Instead, he’s here, confronting the fact that he’s apparently pretty bisexual.

Stefanos grins again. He seems so happy. Sascha doesn’t think he’s been that happy since he was twelve.

“Do you wanna start with just touching me?” Stefanos says, _looking_ at him, Sascha can tell out of the corner of his eye, and Sascha wants to say no, just to be petulant, and although he kind of suspects Stefanos would be into the bratty thing, he can’t lie now, knowing that his hand is perilously close to Stefanos’ dick.

Sascha doesn’t say anything intelligible, just makes a noise, but Stefanos knows what he’s getting at. He links his fingers with Sascha’s, which is frankly some gay shit, and brings his hand down to his dick. Sascha breathes heavily. He doesn’t know why he’s surprised it feels like his. It wasn’t like it was going to be an alien dick.

“Not so bad, right?” Stefanos says, and Sascha starts to laugh, because this is ridiculous, it really is, and he is so turned on, and he curls his hand a bit, and he’s now properly holding Stefanos’ dick, which is so hard, and maybe a little bit smaller than his but not by much. He tries an experimental tug down, and Stefanos groans, and that goes _straight_ to Sascha’s dick, and he tries again, still a bit scared, but Stefanos squirms next to him, and says, “Yeah, fuck, like that, it feels so good,” and Sascha realises that this is _easy,_ he can just do what he likes. He twists his wrist on the way up and Stefanos gasps and is suddenly in his face and kisses him, and Sascha straightens and freezes like a plank.

“Shit, sorry – “ Stefanos pulls away, looking guilty, and Sascha doesn’t think about it that hard but also doesn’t want Stefanos to look like that, and pulls him back and kisses him. It’s kind of weird, kissing a man, and Stefanos’ beard actually hurts against the skin of his cheek where he’d shaved before he’d gone out, but not a bad kind of weird. It’s just new. Sascha makes a mental note to apologize for the times his girlfriends had asked him to shave and he’d been too lazy to do it.

Stefanos pulls away first, breathing heavy. “You alright?” He asks, but it seems more like he’s reassuring himself. Sascha is pleased; it’s the first time he’s seen Stefanos properly shaken.

“I’m good. You good?” Sascha says. Stefanos takes a few long breaths. Sascha tries not to be too smug.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to – I just wanted to and didn’t think – “ Sascha can’t work out what he’s apologizing for. Kissing is not really the gay breaking point, given everything else that’s going on.

“Do people not usually - ?” It’s a shame if they don’t, Sascha thinks. That was fun.

“Not if it’s just – someone on tour.” Stefanos says, and has a bit of a weird tone. Sascha wonders how many people on tour he’s done this with. It seems a bit grim to do it all without kissing.

“Like prostitutes?” He asks, then winces, because he wasn’t trying to imply that Stefanos is like a prostitute but he maybe kind of has.

“Have you ever - ?” Stefanos asks, sounding genuinely curious.

Sascha is suddenly defensive. He could if he wanted to, and they do a very important job. He’s just not brave enough. “No. But I mean in films, you know?”

“You know I’m not a prostitute, right?” Stefanos says, and that’s good, he’s joking.

“I’m not paying you.” Sascha says, and he’s relaxed now, and he’s speaking in a low deep rumble that he _knows_ is sexy, because more than a few girls have told him that.

“You couldn’t afford me.” Stefanos says, because he’s annoying, and Sascha kisses him again, and snakes his hand down and strokes Stefanos’ dick again, and gets another pleasing moan, and with Stefanos’ mouth open against his he feels it in his throat.

“Fuck, can we – can we just try?” Stefanos asks, barely moving away from Sascha’s mouth. He sounds like he wants it so much, like he’s a minute away from begging for it, which is hard for Sascha to take, that someone wants him that much, when he hasn’t done much to deserve it. And now Sascha’s thinking about Stefanos begging, and it’s not the time but he files it away, because he sure is interested in that. He can’t even get freaked out at the thought he’s apparently expecting another time, because everything’s so hot right now it would be bizarre not to want it to happen again.

“Sure. Yeah, let’s.” Sascha says, trying not to sound as stupidly eager as he feels, and he isn’t sure he’s making sense, but clearly something’s got across, because Stefanos pulls away, and picks up the lube. Sascha watches him coat one finger, then lean back and press one finger inside himself, eyes closed, neck back.

He doesn’t like that Stefanos closes his eyes, for some reason. It’s like he’s withdrawn somewhere. Sascha wants to prize his eyes open and – he doesn’t know what, it’s not like he can own Stefanos’ eyeballs, but his weird little possessive streak won’t listen and he wants Stefanos _looking_ at him. He must make a sound, or something, because Stefanos does open his eyes, and smiles at him, still a little distant, and Sascha realizes he’s staring, again, but he can’t bring it in him to care.

“Come here?” Stefanos asks, and Sascha takes a moment to process it. He shifts over, and Stefanos grabs his hair and pulls him down and kisses him. Sascha doesn’t know what to do with his hands, and he’s weirdly propping himself up over Stefanos, and to be honest between the two of them there’s a lot of leg taking up a lot of space, but Stefanos shifts slightly and Sascha comes down by his side. “Do you wanna - ?”

Sascha tries to say yes but forgets how to form the word, so it takes genuine concentration before he can say it. Stefanos takes his hand again, covers it in lube, and pulls it down and Sascha’s finger hovers just at the edge.

“What do I do?”

“Just like with a girl.” Stefanos says, and kisses him again, very light, not much more than a peck, and Sascha thinks it’s not like with a girl at all, that this is so entirely out of his realm of experience, that he’s utterly terrified. But he’s spent enough time being lame and freaking out, and he’s not going to let Stefanos be better at something than him, so he summons all of his courage and slips his finger inside. Stefanos presses his face into Sascha’s shoulder and breathes, slow like he’s concentrating on it.

“You good?” Sascha asks, and Stefanos kisses his neck, which isn’t actually an answer, but Sascha thinks it’ll do. Sascha tries an experimental wiggle with his finger, and gets in response a sharp intake of breath from Stefanos against his neck, which sends a sharp shiver down his spine.

“Yeah, shit – do that again.” Stefanos says, and Sascha obliges. “Try another finger?”

Sascha’s getting a bit more confident now, and he gets another finger in, and thinks that Stefanos was right, it kind of is like with a girl. This is _easy,_ he can do this all day.

“You need to – like – scissor them – stretch me out – oh, fuck – “ Stefanos bites into Sascha’s shoulder when Sascha twists his fingers up. “Yeah, just there, Jesus – “

“It feels good?” Sascha asks, then feels dumb for asking, but Stefanos just hums yes, shifting back, and Sascha tries stretching his fingers out. There’s a tiny bit of his brain that’s still freaking out, that can’t cope with the idea that he has his fingers actually _inside_ Stefanos.

“Your hands are so hot, I’ve thought about this, fuck – “ Stefanos says, and Sascha takes a moment to look at his other hand, wondering if it is hot, but Stefanos laughs and pulls Sascha’s free hand out of the way, curling his fingers around it. And this does take the cake for the gayest thing anyone’s ever done, now they’re basically holding hands while Sascha fingers him. He’s given up on maintaining any heterosexual dignity, and he just has to accept that he really, _really_ likes this. Or at least his dick does, and his dick is fully in charge right now.

“Do you want another one?” Sascha asks, and Stefanos groans, and nods.

“Yeah, but go slow. I haven’t done this for a while.” Stefanos says, and Sascha realises suddenly that’s he’s been so caught up in his own gay panic that he’s barely thought about what this means for Stefanos, what Stefanos is letting him do; if Sascha fucks this up and hurts him, then could it fuck up his game? Sascha is so unbelievably neurotic about what happens to his body in the run up to tournaments, and surely Stefanos is playing something soon – Wimbledon’s round the corner.

Sascha only realises he’s stopped moving his fingers when Stefanos says, “Stop thinking.”

“This won’t hurt you, right?” He has to ask, he’ll be paranoid about it otherwise, and he feels like he’s fifteen again and fumbling around with a girl for the first time and terrified something would break.

“I’d tell you if it did.” Stefanos says, and groans. “Come on, Jesus. Just fuck me.”

“Okay, shit, you’re so demanding,” Sascha says, without thinking, then pauses, because maybe they aren’t quite at the bickering stage yet, but Stefanos doesn’t care, just rolls back and lays open for him. Sascha gets that feeling again, a flicker of it, like he’s winning, finally, like things are how they should be, and it’s almost cruel and he knows it doesn’t actually reflect the power dynamics of what’s going on and he’s too scared to enjoy it much, but it’s there. Stefanos is lying there, impatient and wanting _him,_ which is an extraordinary thing, that even though Sascha is a useless disappointment who always loses and always fucks everything up, Stefanos wants him. That in fact, Stefanos might kill him if he doesn’t fuck him soon.

“Go slow,” Stefanos says, and Sascha mumbles something, pulling on the condom, lining himself up, thinking that it’s not that different from with a girl, that there’s no reason to be terrified, except Stefanos quite clearly has a dick laying on his stomach.

“Okay, yeah, okay,” Sascha says, and pushes in, just a tiny bit, and it’s so hot and so tight he has to do deep breathing so he doesn’t come immediately, and Stefanos moans a little, and shifts, and Sascha pushes in a little further.

“Let me just – yeah, fuck, let me just adjust,” Stefanos says, and so Sascha waits there a moment, braced over Stefanos now, and their faces are weirdly close, Stefanos’ head turned to the side and almost grimacing, and Sascha nearly panics, thinking it’s hurting and he’s fucked it up, but Stefanos looks back up at him and nods, and Sascha breathes deeply, steadying himself, and pushes in further, and then he’s all the way inside Stefanos, and he collapses a little bit on Stefanos’ shoulder, overwhelmed by it, and Stefanos is babbling something, Sascha doesn’t know what, he can’t hear anything, he’s maybe lost all of his senses, which would be sad, he couldn’t play tennis any more, but he thinks they were lost to a good cause.

“You can move,” Stefanos says – or it’s more like whispers, because his mouth is very near Sascha’s ear, and his voice is low and soft and Sascha shivers, a little, giving himself over to it, thinking that he’s past embarrassment now. Stefanos shifts back his legs to give Sascha more room, and it takes Sascha a moment to unscramble his brain, to remember how to move his hips. And actually, he _is_ good at sex, his girlfriends haven’t been that hot for no reason.

“You’re so good at this,” Stefanos says, which was unfair, actually, to bring in Sascha’s embarrassing thing for praise. Brenda had quickly figured out that all she needed to do was tell him what a good boy he was and he came like a teenager. He had absolutely no interest in unpacking whatever was going on there psychologically, and the last thing he needed was Stefanos pissing Tsitsipas telling him – “God, you’re so good, yeah, fuck, you’re so good.”

“Do you ever stop talking?” Sascha said.

“No.” And then Stefanos grinned and stretched back his neck and moaned like a fucking porn star. Sascha should have taken the piss out of him but it was, unaccountably, unbelievably hot, so he just bent over him and fucked him harder, wanting to hear that again. He leant in close, and when Stefanos moaned again, this time choked-out and real, he felt the vibration in his neck, and bit, and Stefanos yelped, high like a girl, but then moaned again, deeper this time, low in his chest, so Sascha bit again, and Stefanos – well, the only way Sascha could describe his movement right now would be _writhing._

“Keep still,” he mutters, and knows it was a mistake because Stefanos suddenly becomes slippery like an eel, giggling, which Sascha thought was absurd, to giggle with a cock in your ass. Though he wouldn’t know, really, the standards for absurd behaviour in that situation – and before he can continue that train of thought, he pulls out and flips Stefanos over. Because he may be stringy but the training with Jez has paid off and he’s absolutely _ripped,_ and even though Stefanos is built like some absurd Greek deity – he is _not_ going to say Greek god, the UTS nicknames were embarrassing for everyone involved – he’s on his back and distracted and so pretty easy to manoeuvre. And Stefanos seems pleased when Sascha starts fucking him again, a hand on his upper back pressing him down into the mattress, and he’s much easier to keep still like this. Stefanos is saying something in Greek, muffled by the mattress, and Sascha fondly imagines that it’s something like, _wow, Alexander Zverev, you are a sex god._

He’s really close, which is embarrassing, it’s not exactly been long, but a lot has happened in the past hour. He’s hovering on the edge, and then Stefanos switches back to English, and starts slurring about how good he is, how good he is at this, how he’s so pretty and so talented and so good, and it’s more than he can take. Sascha comes with a shudder, dropping his weight down onto Stefanos, who grunts. Sascha bites into Stefanos’ shoulder, just because it’s there.

“Did you – “

“Touch me,” Stefanos breathes out, and Sascha reaches around and gets his hand on Stefanos’ dick, which is wet with pre-cum, and jerks him off. It’s rough and messy and not the best example of finesse, but Sascha barely has control of his limbs and Stefanos is almost yelling he’s moaning so loud. Stefanos is always so fucking _loud,_ he should have predicted that. Then Stefanos gasps and comes, and Sascha feels it cover his hand. Sascha strokes his dick once more, curious, and Stefanos makes a sound almost like a choke, so over-sensitive it hurts, and although Sascha is interested he think he’s probably pushed this far enough, and he pulls out and rolls over and throws the condom somewhere into the dark.

Stefanos is watching him – not looking at his face, but at his hand – and Sascha looks down as well and realises that his hand is still covered in Stefanos’ come. He makes a face, because it is kind of gross, and goes to wipe it off on the sheets, but then his curiosity, which will be the death of him, takes over, and he lifts his hand up and licks it. Stefanos looks both amazed and horrified.

“What?” Sascha asks. He doesn’t know why he wondered, it tastes just like his own. He wipes the rest off, which is kind of gross, but he doesn’t have the capacity to stand up right now.

“Nothing.” Stefanos says, and looks up at the ceiling and starts laughing.

“Don’t go crazy now.” Sascha says, although it would certainly be an achievement to have fucked someone into insanity. Stefanos is still laughing, and Sascha thinks about the situation for a moment, that he’s lying here in Stefanos Tsitsipas’ hotel room, with come from both of them drying on his body, and it’s so ludicrous he starts laughing too.

“I thought I was just going to sleep on the sofa.” He says, and he’s so tired, but it feels like it’s important to establish that he didn’t come here thinking this would happen, and Stefanos laughs more at that. “Did you know – ?”

“I hoped. You could have just slept there.” Stefanos says, and his voice is shaking a bit, Sascha notes with a certain satisfaction.

“How did you know I wouldn’t just punch you? When you asked – “ Sascha’s embarrassed to say it, which is ironic, given what they’ve just done. If he’s literally been inside Stefanos’ guts, he should be able to say the word blowjob out loud.

“I don’t think you’re like that.” Stefanos says, a bit more serious.

“Some people would.” They’re both professional athletes, and tennis isn’t kind to gay men, and Sascha could reel off a list of people, otherwise perfectly nice, who’d knock him out for even _suggesting_ they might be gay.

“I wouldn’t offer to sleep with them.” Stefanos says, like it’s so simple. Christ, before today Sascha thought he’d have – well, maybe not punched him, he’s never punched someone before and it looks like it hurts – but he’d at least have been a bit freaked out, if Stefanos sauntered up to him in the locker-room and suggested they fuck. Actually, that was a terrible situation to visualise, now that he _knows_ Stefanos looks the same kind of sweaty and wrung out after sex as after a really long match, and now he can never be in a locker room with him again without getting a really embarrassing hard-on, which means he can probably never play tennis again, or at least he can never have a shower again while Stefanos is in a tournament.

“But how did you _know_?” He asks, and maybe he’s pressing too hard, but seriously, _he_ wouldn’t have known that they would have great sex. Maybe Stefanos is like a sex savant.

Sascha feels, rather than sees, Stefanos shrug. “I thought you would. I was scared I was taking advantage.”

“You weren’t.” Sascha says. He wants to be clear that he was a very active and willing participant. He certainly wouldn’t let Stefanos Tsitsipas take advantage of him.

“I’m glad.” Stefanos says.

Sascha looks up at the ceiling. “I’m gonna sleep here.”

“I never said you couldn’t.”

“I know, I was just saying that I would.”

“Okay?” Stefanos says, and Sascha is pleased that’s cleared up. He then realises he really has to clean himself up a bit, or it’s going to be horrible to deal with in the morning, so he drags himself up and lopes off to the bathroom, and Stefanos is lying in bed, laughing to himself, and Sascha laughs a bit too, because this is ludicrous, completely ludicrous, but he doesn’t mind. He’ll take a bit of stupidity if it means he comes so hard his brain melts.

When they’ve both cleaned off, and they’re lying in bed, drifting off to sleep, Sascha asks, “Does this have to – like – mean anything?” It’s clumsy, he knows, but he has to ask now, or they’ll never address it, and he can’t just wander up to Stefanos at a tournament and say, _Hey, last time was fun, shall we fuck again?_

“I don’t think you’re straight any more.” Stefanos mumbles.

“Bisexual,” Sascha says. He’s pretty sure on that bit, now. The past few hours have pretty much destroyed any idea of himw m being purely heterosexual.

“Good.” Stefanos says, like that’s the end of it, which is a bit bizarre to Sascha, that Stefanos seems to think they _don’t_ need to address it.

“No, I don’t mean – like I’d figured out that I might be a bit gay.” He says, and Stefanos _still_ isn’t getting what he’s going for.

“What do you mean?”

“Like is this – “ He gestures. Stefanos looks at him blankly – or as much as anyone in a dark room can look blankly. “I mean, for us, what does it mean?”

“Oh, right.” Stefanos sighs. “I don’t know, Sascha. What do you want it to mean?”

Sascha thinks about it. Or, rather, he doesn’t have to think about it, but it takes a moment to deal with all his embarrassment and pride and shame, which is a heady cocktail.

“You keep asking me questions,” he ends up saying.

“I want to know the answers.” Stefanos says, and Sascha can’t argue with that.

“What do you want?” Sascha asks. It feels unfair that it’s always Stefanos asking. He has questions, too!

“I want to do it again. If you want that.” Stefanos says. Sascha swallows. It wouldn’t have to mean anything, if it happened again. It makes sense, really. They’re both healthy young men, and they both need to blow off steam, and they spend a lot of time in the same hotels. It was be convenient, more than anything. Although, he has no idea how to broach, ‘So, I just fucked the guy I thought was my great rival’, in his next sports psychology session. Oh my god, next time they play he’s going to feel really awkward and David’s going to ask him about it and he would actually rather fling himself from a cliff than explain to David what happened. David would probably quit the coaching gig if he told the truth, which is that he feels awkward across the net from Stefanos because they’d had wild gay sex and were apparently going to do it again.

“Yeah. I would.” Sascha says. It’s the only thing he can say. It’s true.

“Good.” Stefanos says, and hums, and settles down into his pillow. Sascha stares up at the ceiling. He may have just agreed to a friends with benefits arrangement with Stefanos Tsitsipas. Maybe it was the alcohol. Maybe this is all a deeply weird dream and he’ll wake up tomorrow in his own bed.

“Have you set an alarm?” Stefanos asks.

“Shit.” Sascha says, and crawls over to the other side of the bed to find his phone. He needs to be back at his own hotel in time to pack and catch his plane. “Are you going tomorrow?”

“Yeah. If you leave before eight you’ll probably make it out before my parents are up. They’re next door.” Sascha feels about the same amount of adrenaline in his veins as in a slam final, at that. “Don’t worry, the walls are really thick.”

Sascha relaxes. He doesn’t think he could look Apostolos in the face ever again. He’s not sure he will be able to, anyway; he thinks a montage of this night will probably start playing in his head any time he so much as glimpses Stefanos or his parents, and so he’ll have to communicate with them purely through his own parents, which is rude and embarrassing but probably the only way forward from here.

“Come back here.” Stefanos says, yawning, his voice rough. Sascha hesitates for a moment; getting back into bed and going to sleep next to Stefanos seems – intimate, almost. But it would be silly to care now. He drops his phone and wriggles back under the covers. He starts off primly on one side of the bed, not wanting to invade Stefanos’ space – again, a ridiculous thing to worry about at this point – but Stefanos rolls over and loops an arm around him. They’re not quite spooning, but it’s something close. Sascha had assumed he would be the big spoon in any situation like this, but even though he’s taller Stefanos is broader than him, and it’s the first time he’s been anything like a little spoon. It turns out he likes it. Stefanos is already breathing heavy and asleep in his ear, and Sascha gives up caring, and gives in to his fate and goes to sleep.

Sascha wakes up in the morning before his alarm, the hotel-room curtains barely keeping the light out. His first thought is that he’s less hungover than he thought he’d be. He shifts, and Stefanos, whose face is on his chest, mumbles in protest. Any freak-out Sascha would have had in daylight is paused by his sudden realisation that he’s hard and Stefanos’ hand is sprawled across his hip.

They fuck again, and it’s slow and lazy and Sascha leaves as many marks as he can, until he thinks Stefanos won’t be able to change his shirt in public for _weeks_ , and he isn’t too keen to investigate why he likes that so much, or why Stefanos lets him do it.

They’re sprawled on top of each other when Sascha’s alarm goes off. He groans and swears in German. That gets an interesting noise out of Stefanos, and Sascha wishes he had time to explore that further, but he really can’t miss his plane. He showers – even though it’s a hotel room, it’s always strangely intimate using someone’s bathroom, seeing their fruity shower gels and anti-acne face washes – and when he comes back, Stefanos is still in bed, scrolling on his phone.

“So.” He says, and coughs. He doesn’t look too bad, but he’s pretty obviously in clothes from the night before, and he’s just hoping no-one wants to ask any questions. Stefanos looks up.

“You’re leaving?”

“Yeah.” Sascha says. He puts a hand in his pocket, and then takes it out again.

“What are you playing next?” Stefanos asks, like it’s just a matter of diary scheduling – which, Sascha supposes, is what it comes down to, in the end.

“Queens.”

“Same.” Sascha says, and tries to ignore the relief in his chest.

“I’ll see you there.” Stefanos says, and glances back down at his phone.

“See you.” Sascha says, and nods, like he’s trying to be casual, and it takes a moment before it’s clear Stefanos doesn’t have anything else to say, and is instead just typing something on his phone. Sascha leaves the room, feeling both very stupid and very smug. He wants to bang his head against the wall of the hotel room corridor, but suddenly remembers Stefanos said his parents were next door, and he nearly runs for the lift.

Later, on the plane, Sascha thinks two things. The first is that he forgot to get Stefanos’ number, so he’s going to have to make up some reason he needs to get it off one his friends, which is going to be horribly embarrassing, but the only other option is Instagram DMs, which is much worse. The second is that maybe, after he wins his first slam, he’ll ask Stefanos to fuck him.


End file.
